The Daughter

by Michelle Frances

  He cut her off. ‘I know my patients.’

  ‘You wrote about it, said how you believed it was because of the herbicides, sprayed right up to the edge of their playground, spray that drifted through the open windows of their classrooms—’

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t help you.’

  Kate dug into her bag. Pulled out the photos she’d printed off from her phone, the containers of Senerix products that she’d taken at the farm. ‘Are these the same chemicals?’

  He looked at them for a moment. ‘Put those away, please.’

  She didn’t. ‘Please, Dr Zayan, I need you.’

  ‘You should ask your own British doctors.’

  ‘They don’t know what you do. You have the proof.’

  ‘I have no proof,’ he said with finality. ‘That is the problem.’ He walked to the door and held it open.

  Burning with disappointment, Kate refused to move at first. ‘Why won’t you help?’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’

  He was hiding something, she knew it. ‘Why won’t you help?’ she repeated.

  He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he was going to buckle.

  ‘My next patient is here.’ He indicated the way out. ‘If you please.’

  Kate saw a young girl, about nine or ten, in the waiting room with her mother. ‘Is she one of them?’

  He didn’t answer at first, and she had the feeling he wasn’t going to tell her, then: ‘Yes. She is doing really well. She’s been in remission for a year now.’

  ‘Well, Arnie isn’t. He’s still waiting for a donor match.’

  Dr Zayan put his hand on her arm and firmly pulled her aside, away from the open door. ‘Do not try to tell me how horrific cancer is, how devastating it is for these children,’ he said with a quiet fury. ‘I have seen more than I care to, remember?’

  He let go of her arm and she left the room.

  Dr Zayan smiled as the woman and her daughter went in. The door closed behind them.

  Stupid, stupid, Kate thought. Why had she let herself get emotional? She’d completely messed it up and now her chance had gone. Heavy-hearted, she made her way towards the exit.

  ‘Excusez-moi?’ Kate turned and saw the receptionist was looking at her sharply. ‘You need to pay, please.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, 31 January 2017 – twenty-four days before the accident

  Becky could see him sitting at the table in the window, studying the menu with great concentration. She hesitated; if she was going to bail, now was the time, but then he looked up and the delighted smile of recognition made her blush and her heart sink in equal measure. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it, she told herself and pushed open the door of the bistro.

  He stood and was about to take her coat when a waiter beat him to it, and then there was a bit of a delay while they got in their seats, Adam chivalrously not sitting until she had done so, which turned into an awkward display of a badly timed Bavarian knee dance.

  ‘It’s really good to see you,’ he said, and she brushed aside the niggling uncomfortable feeling she got at the way he didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘You look just the same.’

  ‘Not older? Wiser?’ she said lightly.

  ‘It was only six months ago! I’m so glad you got in touch. I tried to call you, after graduation. Got a different person.’

  Oh shit, she thought, keeping the smile fixed on her face. ‘I lost my phone,’ she said, and the lame excuse hung mockingly in the air.

  There was a faltering silence and then he said, ‘Well, here we are.’ He gestured around the bistro. ‘Lunch!’

  ‘Yes!’ agreed Becky. ‘Is your office near here?’ They’d met in a place only a five-minute walk from the paper – he’d insisted on it being in this part of town because it was close to where she worked.

  ‘Not really. I’m based in Surrey – just outside Walton-on-Thames.’

  ‘Blimey, you didn’t . . . That is, have you come in all this way just for lunch?’ It was a two-hour round trip. Already feeling slightly suffocated, she was dreading his answer.

  He laughed. ‘No. Don’t think I’d get away with taking a lunch break that long. I’m the most junior member of the team. A few of us are up here for a conference. In Granary Square.’

  It was a few minutes from her office. She was relieved the venue suited him just as much as her.

  ‘So, congratulations,’ he said. ‘On the hotshot reporter gig.’

  Becky laughed. ‘Thanks. But I’m only a trainee.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where is it you’re at again?’

  ‘Senerix,’ said Adam.

  She deliberately looked blank.

  ‘It’s an agrochemical company. But dull stuff compared to you,’ he added quickly, changing the focus back onto her, much to Becky’s frustration. She’d have to go with it for a bit and if she opened up, then he’d feel duty-bound to reciprocate. ‘It’s the Herald you work for, then? Very grown up. Actually, one of the few decent papers around.’

  That little puff of pride; she got it every time she walked through the front doors of the huge glass building. Had to pinch herself that she actually worked there. For a newspaper that had a reputation for honest, fearless journalism.

  ‘Which department?’ he asked.

  ‘News.’

  ‘Investigative?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  He whistled softly. ‘Must be exciting. Working on anything good at the moment?’

  She smiled coyly.

  ‘Let me guess, you’re not allowed to say.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you’re going to change the world?’

  Becky looked at him to see if he was mocking her, but his eyes were all sincerity.

  ‘I always knew you would,’ he said.

  ‘So, how about you? Out changing the world too?’

  She felt a little flutter of journalistic instinct: he had hesitated, she was sure of it; his eyes had momentarily clouded over.

  He recovered. Smiled. ‘That’s right. Making our food industry safer right at ground level – no pun intended.’

  ‘Sounds impressive. What exactly is it you do?’ She knew but she wanted to hear him say.

  ‘I work in R&D. Developing new – and improving existing – crop-care products. You know – herbicides, pesticides, fungicides.’

  Her heart did a quiet leap. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’

  He laughed. ‘Can’t say. Especially to a journalist!’

  Becky laughed along with him, glad he wasn’t aware of her original motives for this lunch. ‘Only trainee, remember. Although, I have applied for a reporter’s job.’

  ‘Think you’ll get it?’

  ‘Dunno. Stiff competition. My fellow trainee,’ she said drily.

  ‘Is she good?’

  ‘He. And yes . . . he’s highly thought of. I’m trying to trounce him with a story I’m investigating.’

  ‘And we’re back to embargoed conversation.’

  She smiled. ‘What are we going to talk about then?’

  ‘What we’re having for lunch? I’m ordering the chicken burger and chips,’ said Adam, looking at the menu. ‘Lucky I’m playing squash tonight.’

  ‘You still play?’ said Becky.

  ‘Love it.’ He hesitated, then: ‘You don’t fancy joining me sometime, do you?’

  Her face fell – she didn’t even consider squash a real sport, it was just hitting a tiny ball against the wall of a small room.

  The waiter interrupted to take their order. ‘What’s it to be?’

  Becky glanced up at Adam and saw an opportunity. Maybe a game of squash wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. How hard could it be? They’d do the namby-pamby game and then maybe they could go out for dinner, talk some more.

  She looked Adam in the eye. ‘Two chicken burgers and chips, please.’

  He grinned. ‘So, is that a yes? You going to burn off the calories with me?
’

  ‘Why not? I can’t do tonight . . . but soon?’

  ‘OK,’ said Adam. ‘So, are you going to give me your number? So we can arrange the game?’

  ‘Sure.’ Becky scribbled down her number on a paper napkin and handed it to him.

  ‘Should I check it before you leave?’

  Becky inwardly squirmed. Feigned nonchalance. ‘No need. No mistakes this time.’

  ‘I thought you said the reason it didn’t work before was because you’d lost your phone?’

  The blush flooded up her face. Rumbled. But she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Oh, yes. How silly of me to forget!’

  ‘Yesterday’s ten stories that got the most readership,’ said Terence, flicking up a slide on the drop-down projector screen behind him. ‘Nice one, Lizzie, top of the charts again.’

  A low chorus of whistles and cheers went around the room, where twenty or so of the Herald’s staff were gathered round a large table for the daily conference. Lizzie, one of the senior reporters, acknowledged this with a wry arch of an eyebrow above her blue-rimmed glasses.

  Terence clicked on his laptop and the slide behind him changed. ‘Tomorrow’s front page. Is this the best photo to tell the story of our headliner?’ An unimpressive picture of an erupting volcano illuminated the wall behind him. ‘We can do better. I want to see lava.’ The picture editor was scribbling in her notepad. ‘A new lead’s come in from the news desk,’ continued Terence, ‘premiership football player has been accused of sexual assault by his children’s nanny. The nanny has been on the phone. Lizzie?’

  ‘On the university-places scandal.’

  Terence’s eyes roved around the room and Becky suddenly realized he was looking between her and Piers, who was sitting two chairs along. She felt herself straighten up. She’d absolutely love this assignment, kill for the chance to run with her first story solo.

  ‘Piers, can you follow up?’ said Terence.

  Becky slumped in disappointment. Then a thought suddenly struck her. She spoke up. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I went? Female perspective? More likely to confide?’

  Piers instantly began to protest but Terence held up his hand for quiet while he contemplated. It didn’t take long.

  ‘All right. Next time, Piers.’

  Becky glowed with delight. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Piers was silently seething.

  As they filed out of the room, he fell into step beside her. ‘Uncool, Ellis. Totally uncool,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Oh, come on, Piers. You’d have done the same if you had a pair of boobs. It makes sense anyway and you know it. She’s hardly likely to open up to—’

  She stopped abruptly as Piers had stepped right in front of her. ‘To what?’

  She faltered.

  ‘Go on, say it. Posh boy like me? You think you can play that working-class card?’

  ‘Hey, I’m working cl—’

  ‘You went to a private school just like I did.’

  ‘Scholarship, rich boy. And my mum held down all sorts of low-paid jobs to keep us going. What about your parents? I hear your dad has a number of companies, one of the wealthiest men in Britain. What are they, anyway?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘No, hold on, if we’re wheeling out our backgrounds, where is it your dad holds these companies of his? Sure there’s nothing that would be a conflict of interest with you working here? Wasn’t that long ago the Panama Papers scandal broke.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you want to go down the road of dirty tricks, then bring it on.’

  ‘That’s not what . . .’

  But he’d gone, striding off down the corridor, and Becky realized with a sigh that what had been a little feisty competition had now developed into all-out war. She had made herself an enemy. She caught Darcy looking over, having witnessed their altercation. Darcy followed after Piers, and Becky watched as she draped an arm over his shoulders.

  Cycling home that night, Becky’s mind was even more preoccupied than usual. She’d been in touch with the nanny and had persuaded her to do an interview, an exclusive. It had taken some delicate coaxing, and she’d worked hard to win the girl’s trust. Bollocks to Piers; she knew she’d been the right person for the assignment. She kept thinking about Adam too, that moment where he’d hesitated at lunch. He’d been uncomfortable for some reason, she was sure of it, and she was convinced there was something he knew, something interesting, and she was going to find out what. She pushed her legs harder through the dark streets, the buzz coursing through her body. She felt infallible.

  She didn’t see someone following her. Didn’t notice the motorcyclist, face covered by a black-tinted visor, stay a short distance behind her. Neither had she noticed him the day before, nor the week before that. She always took the same route, taking the back streets to get away from the traffic of Gray’s Inn Road, down Red Lion Street and then cutting south-west at High Holborn until she got to Victoria station, and when she pulled in and headed for her train, the motorcyclist always continued straight past her into the night.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  2018

  ‘I totally screwed up,’ said Kate, as she followed Tim under the railway bridge, heading for the South Bank. ‘Wasted an unbelievable opportunity.’

  ‘You did your best.’

  ‘I let my emotions get the better of me. I went and got all Erin Brockovich. Started getting on my high horse.’

  ‘That’s a good thing!’

  ‘Well, yes, it would have been if I was Erin. But I’m not. I’m me.’ Kate had been kicking herself ever since she arrived back the night before, her whistle-stop trip to Bordeaux a pricey disaster, and she’d been saying as much ever since Tim had met her at the airport.

  ‘I need to wise up. I need to get this right.’ For Becky as well, she added in her head.

  ‘And you will.’ Tim took her hand, turned her to face him. ‘Can we talk about something else, just for this evening?’

  Kate sighed. He was right: she was being a bit of a broken record. The sound of steel drums warming up drew her gaze to a small stage near the river bank.

  ‘I thought it would be fun,’ said Tim. He paused. ‘I thought it would cheer you up.’ He took Kate’s other hand and she was compelled to look up into his blue eyes. Eyes that radiated good intention, that urged her to break into a smile. She did.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Tim.

  ‘Sorry. Have I been very difficult?’

  ‘Nah. Well, actually, yes but I get it. I know how much you needed that doctor on side, but you’ll find another.’

  She didn’t think it was anywhere near as easy as he made it sound. She’d approached a couple of other medical professionals who’d voiced concerns about the links between herbicides and cancer but had heard nothing back.

  He saw her look of despondency. ‘You will. Now, come on.’

  Tim led her to where a small crowd was gathering meaningfully near the band and handed over two tickets to a tall Rasta man.

  ‘What’s that for?’ said Kate warily, eyeing the crowd, who were standing expectantly. She noticed everyone was paired off.

  The Rasta guy joined a girl in skin-tight snake-green shimmering hot pants and a crop top, on a small stage. The girl was holding a mike.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ said the girl in hot pants, gyrating her hips in anticipation.

  ‘Ready for what?’ said Kate.

  Tim was looking very pleased with himself. The steel-drum players started up, the sound of sunshine and the Caribbean cheering the nippy London spring evening.

  ‘It’s ballroom,’ said Tim.

  ‘In those clothes?’ said Kate, nodding at the hot pants.

  ‘With a twist. Come on, shake your tush.’

  ‘Tush?’

  ‘You’ve just gotta follow them.’ He nodded at the black couple on stage: fluid, sexy, perfectly matched.

  She laughed. ‘No pressure, then.’ But she tentatively mi
micked their easy counting and instructions.

  Tim held her tight and whispered in her ear. ‘This is nice, eh? Spending time together.’

  It was, she realized. It had been too long. ‘Great date,’ she murmured into his ear.

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  ‘How many have we had?’

  ‘Seven. This is the eighth.’

  ‘In a year and a half?’

  He spun her around. ‘Pretty rubbish, eh?’

  It was. But so much had happened. So much in her life had been ripped away or turned upside down.

  ‘We should have more,’ said Tim.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘While we can,’ he said meaningfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ve got something to ask you.’

  Her heart froze in terror – or was it excitement? Excitement! The way he was looking at her, the way that always made her heart melt.

  ‘Is it a big thing or a small thing?’ she asked.

  ‘Very definitely a big thing.’

  ‘For us? Me and you?’ she asked pointedly.

  He nodded, and her heart leapt again. This was one of those life-changing moments, she could tell. How did she feel about getting married? It wasn’t something that had ever occurred to her, her life being set on its untraditional path since that fateful night back when she was a schoolgirl. Now she was on the verge of being proposed to, she felt herself swelling with a new kind of joy.

  ‘I’ve been thinking . . . for a while now,’ said Tim, ‘about you and me. I love you—’

  Kate melted. ‘Aw . . .’

  He smiled. ‘Stop interrupting. I do. And I’d like to think we were permanent. You’re certainly the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.’

  Kate prepared herself. She smiled and gave him the space to say the momentous thing.

  ‘And I’d like to make a future with you.’ He took a breath. ‘One that maybe isn’t limited to just us?’

  She frowned, confused. Was he suggesting that they see other people?